


Window

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-01 23:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10203542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Melkor knows what Mairon needs to hear.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Real Fireplace” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/153917135000/my-holiday-themed-bingo-under-cut-you-can-make).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

When Melkor turns from pouring his own glass of wine, he finds Mairon still standing by the fire, gaze now lost in it, eyes alight with the dancing flame. Melkor waits for his faithful servant’s attention to return to him, but it doesn’t happen. The silence merely stretches, Mairon’s glass long forgotten. The rim presses against his plush lips, the crimson liquid inside untouched. Wine is one of the few things of value the elves have created, something Melkor occasionally enjoys in his home, not simply to ‘blend in.’ The other Valar, he thinks, consider him reformed.

Mairon should know better, should know that he was summoned here to hear plans of the future, but it may have been unwise to hold that meeting in the sitting room. Melkor’s home is broad and vast, carved mostly from obsidian, painted with highlights of gold and silver, but the fireplace is red brick, licked around the edges in darkened soot. It stretches, as grand as all his things, from floor to ceiling, and provides the only light in the closed room. The curtains have long since been drawn, the lanterns doused. Mairon seems lit with his own internal _fire_ , feeding off the hearth, pale skin blazing through his freckles. His shimmering hair cascades down slender shoulders, caught in the stray folds of his velvet robes. He looks, in this lost moment, strangely _beautiful_ , but beauty isn’t what Melkor yearns for.

Melkor sets his own glass aside and crosses the room anyway, winding around the heavy armchairs to pace across the woolen rug. Mairon doesn’t stir until Melkor’s right behind him and looping strong arms around his middle, pulling him sharply back. Then his breath hitches, but nothing more. Melkor has to claw at his chin to turn him, but even then, his eyes remain on the charred bottom of the fireplace. Melkor gives his soft cheek a lingering kiss, then purrs into his ear, “Do you miss your forge, my treasure?”

Mairon shivers. Every word Melkor speaks slithers out as a barely-veiled threat when he isn’t trying hard to do the opposite. He doesn’t need a faux-light touch to seduce his future general. Mairon answers a quiet, “No.”

So Melkor hisses, “ _Lies_ ,” and tightens his grip tenfold, until he’s digging into Mairon’s flesh, and Mairon gasps with strain and drops his glass to the floor. It shatters into the carpet, the wine seeping out like blood. These forms are fragile, but Mairon doesn’t try to slip away. He lets himself be crushed into his master’s chest, his body arching to fit, pretty head tossing back to Melkor’s shoulder. Melkor climbs up Mairon’s neck to spread long fingers around his throat, holding him at the awkward angle. Mairon’s eyes have lost the flame, but it’s too late—Melkor’s already seen his longing.

Into one arched ear, Melkor growls, “I will build you a new forge, one that would put Aulë to shame, from which you could form such art that Eru himself could not conceive of.” Mairon’s body stiffens, twitches, taut with anticipation—Melkor drags blunt teeth down the line of his jaw, tasting his sweet flesh. “I will build you one fortress after another, rendered from splits in the very earth and the height of jagged mountains, the depths of which will swim in a thousand fire-pits just waiting to swallow the world...” Mairon trembles now, one set of delicate fingers reaching to stroke Melkor’s wrist, craving _skin on skin_. “I will let you play beneath the crust, let you breed whatever your dark heart should desire in pools of molten lava.” Mairon _moans_ , filthy and desperate, his body burning, sizzling against Melkor’s robes. “You will burst from the greatest heights to cover all else in ash, and the sky itself will glow red with our fury...”

Mairon fights in Melkor’s arms. He twists, trying to free himself, likely to turn and throw himself at his master’s feet, but Melkor only tightens his fierce grip and growls, “Do you have any doubts as to whom you should belong?”

With a wild wrench of strength, Mairon twists in Melkor’s arms, his hands darting to fist in Melkor’s hair, thighs thrust around Melkor’s leg. He snarls, “ _Yours_ ,” and kisses Melkor hard.


End file.
